No more messy nights - the Amsterdam party is over

© Simon Poulter

When I moved to Amsterdam, 24 years ago, there were innumerable comments along the lines of: “Oh yeah... Amsterdam, eh?! EH?!! Nudge-nudge, wink-wink, EH?!!”. 

To the uninformed I was relocating to a cesspit of iniquity, a European Gomorrah of rampant drug taking and prostitutes for sale in the windows of every street. Everything, people supposed, a single man in his early thirties could desire. Except it wasn’t. Because Amsterdam wasn’t - and isn’t - like that at all. 

Yes, the notorious red light zone de Wallen (“the walls”) exists, with its women – most probably sex-trafficked - sat in illuminated windows looking bored while awkward men leer at them from the outside. And, as you walk through quaint backstreets, the barely disguised whiff of weed tickles the nostrils as it pours out of semi-legal coffee shops. However, this is just a tiny slice of Amsterdam, one of the jewels of Europe, with its Instagramable canals, medieval architecture, vibrant culture and a history and charm matched only by the likes of Paris, Seville or Prague.

I am naturally biased, having once lived in or near Amsterdam for the better part of a decade, as well as being a frequent visitor for almost 30 years. To some extent, too, the seedier side isn’t as bad as it could be (ditto, Hamburg and its somewhat cartoon-like Reeperbahn), but I get where the city authorities, and indeed the Dutch government, are coming from in wanting to clean it up. 

Conscious of this reputation, tourists are even being discouraged from visiting the de facto Dutch capital, though this was initially a measure to cut down on overcrowding. An environmental measure was also introduced to cap flights arriving at Schiphol, Amsterdam’s massive, seven-runway international air hub, which this year alone has reduced the number of flights from the UK by 22% compared with pre-Covid travel. The Netherlands Tourism Board has even been actively promoting places alternatives like Eindhoven - a city I know well from my career at Philips, which was founded there. 

But with the exception of football nerds wishing to see the PSV Stadion, or the even more niche interest of the Philips lightbulb museum, Eindhoven is largely a ‘company town’ with little to offer tourists compared to the cultural riches of Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh Museum, the Anne Frank House, the canals or the Negen Straatjes (‘nine streets’), not to mention its wealth of cross-culture cuisines.

Amsterdam has always been one of the most welcoming cities in Europe, in one of the world’s happiest nations, according to research by the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development. But those same people are understandably tired of the stag-weekenders who spend their time in the city getting drunk, fighting outside bars and urinating in canals (before then falling in), or swaggering about the red light zone leering at its most unfortunate residents. 

This has now been reflected by an online campaign specifically targeting 18-35-year-old British men, with one ad showing a young man being arrested and put in a cell with the atypically Dutch-blunt caption: “So coming to Amsterdam for a messy night? Stay away.”

In recent years the city has made efforts to combat the vice industry (believed to be controlled by a combination of rival Turkish and Albanian organised crime), both to cut down on the sex tourism as well as the exploitation of vulnerable women. The drugs trade, run by the same gangs, has long been associated with this, with politicians arguing that the liberal experiment, dating back to the 1970s, which legitimised cannabis use as long as it is sold in limited quantities in coffee shops, has failed. Weed sales have been regarded as a gateway to sales of harder narcotics, all with associated criminality invariably leading to violence.

When I moved to Amsterdam in 1999 moves were already in place to tackle drug tourism, prompting a national ban on the sale of magic mushrooms and an increased regulation of cannabis sales, and aimed at striking a balance between tourism and public safety. Simultaneously, concerns about sex tourism and human trafficking prompted initiatives to regulate prostitution and improve the working conditions of sex workers. There were also measures to reduce the visibility of the red light district, with an effort to redevelop Amsterdam’s central neighbourhoods by encouraging new businesses to move into streets previously dominated by the sex and drug industry.

Sustainable tourism has also been promoted, with a campaign calling for tourists to “Enjoy & Respect” Amsterdam, and embrace its rich cultural artistic heritage rather than its seedier attractions. However, in also addressing both ‘over-tourism’ and sex/drug visitors, businesses relying on tourist euros have expressed their concerns at any effort to drive down undesirabled, especially in the wake of Amsterdam’s post-pandemic recovery.

It is, then, a dilemma. Amsterdam – like everywhere else – suffered greatly from Covid travel bans and lockdowns, as the city’s hotels, bars, restaurants and shops saw business plummet. The campaign against young male Brits is targeted, but it is hard yet to gauge whether it will be either effective in achieving its aims, or detrimental to the local economy.

© Simon Poulter

As a champion of Amsterdam, however, anything which can successfully eradicate city’s “nudge-nudge, wink-wink” association, and works to enhance and embrace its unique identity is a good thing.

The city is more than simply a living museum, but its heritage - dating back to the 13th century when a small fishing village was established along the Amstel River - is more than worthy of protection. This is the city that was at the heart of the Dutch Golden Age in the 18th century, becoming a trading hub, with the construction of its famous ring of canals earning it the “Venice of the North” nickname. Its commercial and artistic foundations are still to be celebrated, either in the traditions established by the Dutch East India Company, one of the world’s earliest multinationals (and the genetic origin of the Netherlands’ global business outlook), the foundation of one of the world’s first stock exchanges – the “Beurs” (although Belgium’s Bruges lays claim to the oldest, its bourse), not to mention the work of Rembrandt and Vermeer during that same era.

There are those who see the see the discouragement of tourists looking to have the wrong kind of good time as being to Amsterdam’s financial detriment, not to mention to the detriment of its charm. But, just as New York – established as New Amsterdam – cleaned itself up in the early 1990s to its immeasurable benefit as a tourist destination, Amsterdam’s crackdown on Brits seeking to exploit its underbelly will go a long way to lessen the profile of that reputation. It will surely only enhance what those like me who know it, know it to be the real Amsterdam.

How ARE you?! Selling Sunset, Dutch style

Picture: Netflix

Bored, one Sunday afternoon in early 2004, I drove out of Amsterdam in the direction of Hilversum, a name you’ll know if you’ve ever owned a transistor radio as it was one of the pre-marked positions embossed on tuning dials (the town being the Netherlands’ self-styled ‘media city’ as home to most of the country’s broadcasters due to its hilly position above a mostly below-sea level landscape.

Dutch afternoons in February tend to close in early, so not fancying navigating uncharted waters in the wintry half light, I decided not to make the tour too long and navigated out of Hilversum in a looping direction back to Amsterdam. An arrow-straight tree-lined road took me through a picturesque, wooded area known as t’Gooi, passing bucolic communities which, judging by their properties, were home to the well to-do (media folk and Amsterdam financiers, no doubt) along with working farms. 

Somewhere before the road connected with the A2 spinal motorway that would take me back to the Dutch cultural capital, I made a decision that would prove to be fateful: I turned off the provincieweg and detoured into a cute village containing historic looking chalets, elegantly architectured townhouses and a windmill, with a river running right through it. 

© Simon Poulter 2022

Driving gingerly through minuscule streets I eventually squeezed across a bridge that seemed barely wide enough for a bicycle, let alone my car, and onto the opposing bank, passing through a neighbourhood of modern post-war housing. Eventually I found myself back on the main road and heading home to my one-bedroom shoe box in Amsterdam’s Oud Zuid (Old South). By the following spring, I’d decided that this apartment - which had only meant to be temporary refuge after I relocated from California - had become claustrophobic. 

I asked the relocation agent who’d helped find it what the housing market was like in Amsterdam’s outer suburbs, having in mind something with a bit of space to house my America-fattened library of CDs and DVDs, and my modest collection of guitars and other musical accoutrements that had been in storage since arriving in the country. A shortlist of six houses was drawn up, with visits planned to all of them in the space of a single Tuesday. The sixth and final property was in the village I’d taken a detour through just a few months before. This was the house that I made my home that July.

Last week, after 18 years of ownership, I said goodbye to it. Circumstances have prevailed in the intervening years, eventually returning to London after 17 years abroad and, now, with a wife and a home of our own to maintain. My little bolthole in the Dutch countryside had become superfluous to requirements. That’s life.

Now, don’t get me wrong: selling up was bittersweet. I’d never owned an actual house before, just a flat in Surbiton (and various rentals and flatshares), so there was something satisfying about coming home each night to my own front door, my own living room, kitchen, upstairs bedroom and a converted attic that was my home office and imaginary music studio. In the spring, summer and even early autumn, the house had an Italian-style garden at the back in which to chill out, especially after coming home from work. And then there were the neighbours: I can’t speak highly enough of the families who lived around me, who welcomed this lone Englishman into their midst in the summer of 2004 (and put up with his English-speaking ignorance and occasional, futile attempts to converse in Dutch). Even towards the end of the selling process, they were of enormous help, taking care of things I was unable to do from London. If there was one downside, it was that - as rural villages go - it could be a little cut off. Amsterdam was only 20km away (the skycrapers of the city’s south-eastern business district could be seen in the distance across billiard table-flat fields), but unless you had a car, you may as well have been living on the moon. With a car, commuting and socialising was easier than it is here in London, with its nose-to-nose packed morning trains and choked city streets. 

© Simon Poulter 2022

Still, though, handing over the keys to the house’s new owners brought a mixture of emotions. I was delighted, first, to have sold the house in a steadily flattening market, but secondly to a young couple just starting out on the property ladder. They, too, were moving out of the city. But even on the morning of the handover, I was reminded acutely of how life in the area was just so unrushed, despite being close to one of Europe’s liveliest cities - buying champagne for my neighbours in the picturesque village of Abcoude or stopping for a coffee in the timeless marketplace of Breukelen, just down the road (and the town from which New York’s Brooklyn gets its name).

I grew up in a village, albeit a London suburb (where I live again today) which the locals call ‘The Village’. It isn’t one, of course - just another piece in the jigsaw puzzle that is conurbated London - but you see what they mean. In our street there is a similar sense of the neighbourliness I experienced in my Dutch village, wherein neighbours both know your business, but also would do anything for you when called upon. It’s almost from another time.

The process to sell the house was as accelerated as it was to buy it in the first place. With the Dutch summer break fast approaching, not to mention the cost-of-living crisis threatening to deflate the country’s property market, I needed to move quickly. Here’s where my force-of-nature estate agent Gwen came to the fore. We’d been in touch for several years, dating back to a time when - as these cycles go - Dutch property was undergoing another of its capricious periods. I kept my patience. When the time came to get on with selling, Gwen connected me with all the decorators, repairmen, gardeners and cleaners I would need to ensure it was in tip-top condition, operating at a remote distance from the UK to get the house ready for sale. Simply put, it just happened. 

For a profession as maligned as estate agents, Gwen was diligent to the core. Mine may not have been the biggest house sale she’ll ever preside over, particularly in an area containing million euro mansions, but even with my modest little drum, I felt like I was being given top priority. Even more so, given that much of the process was being handled in a language different to mine (though the Dutch gift for linguistics meant that my laziness was tolerated throughout).

Contrast my experience with the disturbingly addictive Selling Sunset reality shows on Netflix. They have become a fixture in our house. I would like to say that it is my wife and step-daughter who watch them, with me occasionally looking up from my iPad and harumphing, but that would be a bare-faced lie. 

For the uninitiated, Selling Sunset, and its new sibling Selling Sunset OC, are fly-on-the-wall shows about the Oppenheim Group, a high-end estate agency operating in the rarified echelons of Los Angeles’ priciest neighbourhoods and, latterly, the equally expensive coastal cities of Orange County, to LA’s south. Looking at these trash TV series from one viewpoint, I know LA very well and we recently had the final component of our honeymoon in the OC’s Huntington Beach (dining out in places like Laguna Beach and Balboa Island, which feature in the show), so seeing familiar sights is a draw. But those who’ve seen the shows will know that’s not what draws in the viewers: it’s the absolute bitchfest that ensues each episode as they focus as much on the interpersonal chaos between the ‘cast’ of estate agents (and, evidently, wannabe actors), with their obvious cosmetic enhancements, as they gouge each others eyes out (metaphorically, but I wouldn’t put it past them actually gouging a rival’s eyes) in pursuit of their cut of a mult-million dollar house sale. And seeing as one house in Selling Sunset OC went for over $106,000,000 you can understand the blood thirsty ambition. My eyes are still watering from that.

It’s very nice to go trav'ling

© Simon Poulter 2021

The last time I set foot in another country - unless Scotland counts as one - was almost two years ago to the week: a cheeky trip to Palma for a dose of autumnal Majorcan sun. The trip also provided welcome respite from a mad 12 months in which I flew 52 times for a job that I ultimately walked away from. I hate to think what my carbon footprint was for the return on that time and professional investment. 

So, apart from our four days in Edinburgh in August, that’s been it for two years. No Air Miles Andy me - until this week, when I spent a few hours in Amsterdam to sort out some personal finance admin put on hold by COVID-19 travel restrictions. You see, while we’ve all been raving about WFH enabled by technology, some things still require face-to-face contact. In my case, a Dutch bank account requiring in-person attention because, even in the age of fintech, it couldn’t be sorted out over the phone. After 18 months, then, of being unable to do anything about it, I grabbed the opportunity of the current, potentially brief window in travel and burned off some of the Avios points accrued during my insane year of travel and popped over to the Dutch capital. As you do. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking: not very green flying to Amsterdam for just two appointments and then fly straight back again. Well, no it wasn’t, but it was also unavoidable. And, I like to think, unlike the hapless Manchester United squad who recently flew to an away fixture with Leicester City, a journey of 100 miles that could have just as easily been taken by train or coach (except, apparently, they wanted to avoid traffic on the motorway). I, too, could have driven to Amsterdam, or even taken the Eurostar, now the city has been added to its services from St. Pancras. But even with a relatively reasonable journey time of just under four hours each way, the logistics wouldn’t have worked without requiring an overnight stay, with more expense and unnecessary absence.

During that year of near-constant business travel I made frequent day trips to places like Paris, Munich, Madrid and Zurich, invariably taking advantage of London City Airport being only a short DLR ride away from Greenwich, where I was living at the time. The airport was built in the 1980s as part of London’s Docklands regeneration, transforming one of the old Royal Docks wharfs into a gateway for City bankers to jet off to Europe’s financial centres and return within the day. Like all airports, London City has been impacted by the dramatic turndown in air travel over the last year, but this week there was no shortage of young, thrusting types who have barely started shaving, wearing polished shoes and sharp suits, furiously tapping away at laptops as they prepared to fly off to meetings at the big accounting houses like E&Y and PWC. That said, you could hardly say that the airport was bustling at seven in the morning as it once would have been. Travel has understandably taken a back seat, and even though it is gradually being allowed to return - this latest half-term holiday has been the first opportunity for many families to take advantage of the relative easing of restrictions - it is still far from ‘frictionless’. 

Before the pandemic, my day trip to Amsterdam would have been almost as easy as catching a bus to go shopping at Westfield. But even just to visit the city for a few hours I had to go through a lot of rigmarole: first, a ‘fit to fly’ COVID test (£39 - ker-ching!) and pre-book a ‘Day 2’ PCR test for my return (£69 - ker-ching again!), upload my NHS COVID vaccination certification to the British Airways website, along with the fit-to-fly result, plus a completed health declaration form for the Dutch government and a Passenger Locator Form for the UK government. All of this so that someone could check that I’d completed the protocols. So far, no one has been in touch, £110 worth of testing later… 

I must admit, once I’d gone through the stress of securing all these tests and paperwork, the actual business of getting on the plane was quite easy. After satisfying BA that I complied with all requirements, my boarding pass was sent to my phone, allowing me to breeze through the electronic gates at the airport, and then on through the now considerably lighter-touch security screening than it used to be, thanks to the installation of advanced scanners that no longer require you to remove laptops, shoes and belts. Arrival at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport was just as easy, save for the fact that we Brits can no longer wave an EU passport through the ‘e-gates’, now we’re outside the Schengen Zone (a bit like the Twilight Zone only less fun). Once passport control was happy with my reasons for visiting, I was on my way for the 15-minute train ride to Centraal Station in the heart of the city. The return journey was a little more arduous as BA’s app and self-service check-in kiosks refused to give me my boarding pass. Evidently not all the paperwork uploaded for the outbound flight had been replicated for the home journey, requiring a torturous wait for the check-in desk to open. I suppose this is the price to pay for any kind of foreign travel at the moment and, possibly, for the foreseeable future.

Perhaps, though, we in the UK have been lulled into a false sense of security by the relative lack of health enforcement compared to elsewhere. The travel experience notwithstanding, my brief trip afforded an opportunity to see life outside the UK for the first time since the pandemic took over the world. Although the British media has kept pace with COVID-19 developments around the world, for most of us the intensity has been in our own back yard. Seeing another city, another country, another people and how they took to, for example, mask wearing, was fascinating, almost from the minute I exited the aircraft walking through the airport and then travelling on the transport system it was notably reassuring to see that masks were de rigueur. There was similar obedience in Edinburgh, come to think of it. Just not on London’s public transport network, where COVidiocy remains stubbornly high. That said, the Dutch haven’t been immune to the virus. In a country of just 17 million people there have been 2.12 million cases to date and an estimated 18,000 deaths, though many believe that number could be higher. While I was in Amsterdam news emerged that the Dutch government is considering reintroducing local restrictions amid some of the fastest rising infection rates in Europe, an increase that was “faster and sooner than expected,” according to the country’s health minister, Hugo De Jonge. 

The Netherlands declared its own ‘freedom day’ at the end of September, ending all restrictions with the introduction of a smartphone app-based pass system, requiring proof of vaccination and a negative test to be shown before entering bars, restaurants, cinemas and other public venues. A month on, there wasn’t any noticeable skittishness in Amsterdam, and in restaurants and cafes customers of all ages and demographics dutifully showed their digital passes to gain entry. It was actually quite reassuring to see such apparent civil compliance. 

“After some early consternation, the majority of pragmatic Dutch accepted the [COVID app] pass as a means of resurrecting their social lives while shrugging off social distancing,” wrote the BBC’s Netherlands correspondent Anna Holligan this week on the BBC News website, in a feature in which the corporation’s journalists in Europe reported on the local approach to curbing the spread of the coronavirus. “When I've asked waiters or box-office workers if they want to see the QR code proving my vaccination the answers vary from ‘no, it’s okay, we trust you’ [which was my experience] to ‘we don't actually have the technology’,” Holligan added, pointing out that a recent study had found that around a third of Dutch cafes and restaurants are not scanning the local corona pass at all. 

My experience was mixed: one cafe made the pass voluntary, another asked to see mine, which I didn’t have, but did have both the NHS Travel Pass and another ‘health passport’ resulting from my expensive pre-flight test. Although not officially recognised abroad (though, since Friday, they should be now), the waitress who greeted me at one cafe in Leidseplein decided that she’d seen enough and had better things to do.

In France, the passe sanitaire has become part of daily life, and is essential to do anything, from entering a bar or cinema to getting on a train. COVidiocy, however, also varies across the continent. The BBC’s Hugh Schofield says that traditional French libertarianism has reared up in response to virus measures: “Of course there are people in France who object on principle to having to prove their credentials at every turn.” he wrote. “Every Saturday there are demonstrations in Paris and other cities, bringing together anti-vaxxers with libertarians and protesters against ’health discrimination’. Contrary to what some expected, though, these have not turned into a mass movement, and are dwindling in strength.” Schofield explained that implementation of the passe sanitaire has seen a rapid uptake of vaccinations, regarding it as the key to returning to some form of French social normality. More than 50 million French people have been totally vaccinated, including a large majority of those over the age of 12. Jabs have been incentivised further by an ending of free tests for the virus, meaning that for the passe sanitaire to allow entry to the bars and cafes that are central to French living, people have to show either proof of vaccination or a recent negative (and paid-for) test.

Compare all this with the United States, for many years my go-to choice for holidays. Next week the US opens up again to foreign visitors, but the Land of the Free won’t be quite as open as it once was. In New York, for example, proof of vaccination is required to get into hospitality settings, theatres, museums and other attractions. Masks aren’t required, but it is strongly advised by the city’s mayor. Chicago is different, with masks mandatory in all indoor spaces. In Los Angeles, proof of vaccination is required to enter bars and restaurants, and masks are even required for anyone over the age of two “in all indoor public settings, venues, gatherings, public and private businesses”, according to the local public health authority with rules covering all outdoor events and public transit. Masks are mandatory in Washington DC, and several states including Nevada, Hawaii and Oregon. Ultra-conservative Florida, perhaps not surprisingly, has gone in the opposite direction, with the state’s governor Ron DeSantis even threatening to fine businesses demanding proof of vaccination from customers. All thus in a country where only 57% of the national population has been vaccinated, although the rate of infection in the US is just 225 cases per million of population. Compare that to the UK’s 621 per million, in a country with 67% vaccination.

© Simon Poulter 2021

Back to my trip this week: perhaps the reality of life during COVID elsewhere were at their most stark at Schiphol Airport. In the 30-plus years that I’ve been travelling through it, it has always been a bustling hub, reflecting the historic internationalist Dutch outlook on trade and, therefore, world travel, but also the fact that it has always been a superior shopping experience. I used to joke that Schiphol was essentially a shopping mall with a runway, but last week, as I returned to its airside walkways in the late afternoon, I was shocked by how many shops were already closed for the day. Even some of the airport’s coffee bars - coffee being the lifeblood of Dutch existence - were closed. It was here that I saw for myself just how the pandemic has impacted travel. Like many other places, the Netherlands has suffered a sharp fall in tourists, with the national tourist board revealing that only seven million foreigners took up hotel accommodation in 2020, a drop of 13 million compared with 2019. Inbound tourism from traditional points of origin like the US and Asia decreased by 83%, but even numbers of tourists entering via the country’s open EU borders fell, with visitors from its southern neighbour Belgium dropping by 58%.

The statement-of-the-bleedin’-obvious conclusion from all this is that the pandemic has affected so many aspects of daily life that we used to take for granted. I won’t deny that the amount of business travel I used to endure was something of a privilege, but if one good thing comes out of this global crisis, it’s that digital communications really is a substitute for the expense and environmental impact of air travel in particular. But we can’t not travel at all. As the world debates climate change in Glasgow this week, aviation in particular will come under scrutiny again, especially given the fact that world leaders have all flown to Prestwick to talk about it. 

The world would be a worse place if we couldn’t move around it. Travel really does broaden the mind. We’ve missed having a week or two on a beach somewhere for the last two summers, the simplest of pleasures to provide escape from the mundanities of everyday life. Yes, there are plenty of beautiful places to explore here at home, but taking a plane somewhere should, also, be possible. For me, this week felt like a start.

How No.66947 became Selma again

Living in the Netherlands for the best part of ten years, I only occasionally encountered traces of its wartime past. Once a year, out of some sense of duty, I would visit the British and Commonwealth cemetery in Oosterbeek, where Allied casualties of the Battle of Arnhem are buried. Each gravestone tells its own story of one of the most tragic episodes of the latter stages of the Second World War.

When German forces invaded in 1940, they were not only annexing another neighbouring country they were adding another key territory from which to launch attacks - and, an eventual invasion - on Britain. The Dutch paid a terrible price. In the aftermath of Arnhem, even with the Allies moving further into Europe after D-Day, the Nazi occupation grew ever-more brutal, with starvation and fuel shortages rife during the winter of 1944. The occupation - at times as fanatical as anywhere in the Third Reich - lasted until the ultimate German surrender in May 1945.

As such, the Dutch commemorate their war history with both sobriety and celebration, even now. Every May, the 4th is a sombre day of remembrance, Dodenherdenking, with a grand ceremony on Amsterdam's Dam Square attended by the Dutch royal family, the government and other dignitaries. At 8pm in the evening, the country falls silent. The following day, the 5th, is Bevrijdingsdag, a much livelier celebration of freedom.

In Amsterdam, as you walk or cycle around the centre you are bound to come across the remarkable Anne Frank House, the living museum which depicts arguably one of the most famous - and infamous - stories of the Nazi persecution of Dutch Jews during the Second World War, a persecution that decimated some three-quarters of the Jewish population. I remember hearing stories of life during occupation from an older colleague of mine at Philips, who was a young boy during the German occupation. Some of his tales were almost comical, when told from a child’s perspective: one in particular was about him being given a toy drum for a birthday, and then having to keep it quiet as his family went into hiding, moving from house to house as the authorities closed in on them. Others were less amusing, but they fascinated me with their unique perspective on life under brutal subjugation, an alternative view of war than that imparted by my own parents who were children growing up at the same time in Britain, and under very different conditions on the home front.

Another perspective has arrived in the form of My Name Is Selma, the remarkable memoir of the sprightly, articulate Selma van de Perre. Now 98, her book tells the story of what happened to Jews and other persecuted minorities in the Netherlands, but framed by her own experience as a member of the Dutch resistance. Selma was 17 when the war began, and once the Nazis commenced their programme of arresting Jews and deporting them to concentration camps, Selma successfully managed to evade capture, much in the same manner as my late colleague and his family did. Eventually, she joined the resistance and, working as an agent under the name ‘Marga’, took part in missions to disseminate underground information. Luck played a major part in her work. In one mission, she went to Paris to exchange documents with a resistance spy based at the Nazi headquarters. Today, she says it was a mission she just got on with, "without thinking about if you have ideals,” she told the Dutch newspaper Het Parool earlier this year. “You can't just talk about them. We were also naive.”

That luck ran out in 1944 when she was arrested as a political criminal, her Jewish heritage still hidden, and sent first to the Dutch transit camp at Vught near Eindhoven (which wasn’t without its atrocities), before being moved to Ravensbrück in northern Germany, a camp almost exclusively for female prisoners. There she remained defiant, continuing to use her adopted name rather than her own, only reclaiming her real identity when the war ended and the camp liberated. There is, however, no doubting that life in Ravensbrück was hell, and at one point a prison doctor even thought she was close to death. “I refused to give the Germans their way,” Selma said to Het Parool. “I clung to thin threads of life and eventually made it.

Selma van de Perre and Louise Minchin on BBC Breakfast

Today, even at the age of 98, she is anything but clinging to life. Interviewed last week on BBC Breakfast by Louise Minchin she appeared remarkably robust, articulately speaking in perfect English - as the Dutch tend to do - the result of having lived in London since the end of the war when she landed a job at the Dutch embassy. "Every day I am happy to be alive,” she says today. She continues to live independently (her husband, Belgian journalist Hugo van de Perre, died in 1979), still cooks for herself and does her own shopping. Even now, she’s the very picture of defiance. “Until recently I played golf, but I stopped,” she told the Dutch newspaper. “I thought it was getting a bit too dangerous. You know, if you fall as an old person and you break something, then you're done.”

Things first became dangerous for Selma after the German invasion of the Netherlands in May 1940. As Jews, Selma’s family were designated second-class citizens. Two years later her father was captured and deported to be murdered in Auschwitz in December 1942. Her grandmother, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces also suffered the same fate. The following  July 1943 her mother and teenage sister were arrested in Eindhoven where they were hiding. Selma didn't hear anything from them again. They, too, were executed almost immediately on arrival at the Sobibor death camp.

Motivated by her family’s fate and inspired by the self-sacrifice of a young activist who’d committed suicide rather than betray compatriots, Selma threw herself into working for the resistance. “They were short of young people, so I said yes.” Taking the name Marga from a dead non-Jewish baby, Selma’s work for the resistance took her all over the country, riding her luck throughout. Her eventual arrest on 18 June, 1944, two weeks after D-Day, led to a continuous fight for life in Ravensbrück, where she assigned to the ‘aisle of death’ part of the camp and known only by the number 66947. Nearly 100,000 women and children died at the camp, from a combination of executions, hunger and disease. Many were subjected to medical experiments, torture and hard labour. “It was three to four people to one bed,” Selma revealed. “Thousands slept on the floor.”

The camp’s liberation brought more than just physical freedom for Selma. In Malmö, where Swedish diplomats had taken freed prisoners, she was asked her name. “Margareta van der Kuit,” she said at first, using her adopted name, before realising that her identify should be restored: “My name is Selma. Selma Velleman [her maiden name].”

Selma van de Perre in London, 195
Picture: Selma van de Perre

“People still ask me why the Germans never found out my real identity,” she says today. “As Marga, I never raised any questions. That has been my luck.” Like most Dutch people, Selma retains a profound sense of pragmatism about her wartime adventures. “I took the right decision at the right time several times,” she says, and also didn’t stop to think about sacrifices. In Ravensbrück she found food for a pregnant women: “No matter how good it smelled, how hungry I was, I never ate any of it.”

Today, Selma's memories are lucid, and the book gathers together in fascinating detail the events of almost 80 years ago. She became a journalist after her husband - himself a Belgian correspondent - passed away, writing for the Belgian newspaper De Standaard, amongst others. Settling in London and taking British citizenship, she started work, "reluctantly," on her remarkable story. “I didn't really want to,” she says, but her brother’s children convinced her otherwise. “‘You must write it down’, they said. ‘You are the last of that generation still alive’.”

Still, though, the writing process didn’t come easily, bringing back many disturbing memories, especially of the disappearance of her own mother and sister. “When I lie awake at night or early in the morning, I think about them,” Selma revealed to Het Parool. “Then I wonder what they experienced in the cattle wagon on their very last trip. You remember that image until you die.”

In the book she writes: "Inside me is a terrible hole that will never heal. In my head I construct in the most horrible detail what has been done to them. I wonder if Mum and Clara knew what was going on, those two lovely, innocent people who had never hurt anyone. I wonder if they were holding hands when they died; I wonder if Dad was thinking about us in his last seconds, or if he panicked too much to think about anything. Even now, 75 years later, I lie awake at night and say to myself, 'Selma, go to sleep; you can't change what happened just by thinking about it'. ”

Despite her age, Selma continues to be active in maintaining public consciousness of the grim piece of human history that is the Holocaust. Every year she lays a wreath at the Women of Ravensbrück memorial on Amsterdam’s Museumplein. She has also given lectures to students at Ravensbrück. Her story isn’t just about what happened to her fellow Jews in the Nazi camps but what happened to those who were able to return home: “Don't forget the cold reception for survivors when they returned to the Netherlands,” she says. “Nobody was interested in what had happened to us.” Selma’s book not only celebrates the true identify she denied herself while working for the Dutch resistance, but also the point that Dutch Jews weren’t rendered entirely helpless by their persecution. “In reality, countless Jews worked with non-Jews together in the resistance – much more than we knew during the war,” Selma writes in her book. “Often, it was assumed that Jews who escaped deportation immediately went into hiding but that wasn’t always the case. It wasn’t in the interest of Jews to be identified as such. This explains to a large degree why so few Jews had been recognized for their actions.”

“I was one of many Jewish people to fight the Nazi regime and my story illustrates what happened to thousands of Jews and non-Jews alike,” she says of her book. “I have recorded the small details that made up our lives, the sheer luck that saved some of us and the atrocities that lead to the deaths of so many. This book is written as a testament to our fight against the inhumanity. The horrors of the Second World War and the bravery of the people who defied them must never be forgotten. I hope this book will contribute to their lasting memory.” It certainly does. What a remarkable woman.

Snowmageddon out of here!

It was supposed to be a romantic weekend for two. My girlfriend and I visiting Amsterdam, a city I lived in and around for nine and a half years, and just before Christmas. A little sightseeing, some festive shopping, a couple of cosy dinners and then home to start another working week. And even though the weather forecast had talked of snow, being the out-in-the-Midday-sun Brits that we are, we didn’t see this as a reason to worry.

Even on the Sunday morning, as we trudged to breakfast pancakes through blizzard conditions like Captain Scott just popping out for a bit, we were confident that all would be fine later. No, really, this was just a dusting of snow, and that by the time we were meant to leave that afternoon, our modern plane, with its weather radar and automated flight systems, would soar up through the clouds.

It didn’t. As we were getting into the taxi to Schiphol Airport, a text message from British Airways said our flight had been cancelled. No suggestion of how we were now meant to travel, mind, just that it was off, and have a nice day. Tra-la-la. The missive provided a couple of numbers to call: the first didn’t work at all (BA’s Amsterdam call centre) and the second just offered details of a third number, in Newcastle, which of course everyone else was ringing, so you couldn’t get through. For the next 45 minutes I listened to a loop of soothing string music and suggestions of how I could get the best out of my weekend away. Marvellous.

At Schiphol we joined a queue that possibly led to a British Airways person to see whether we could get a new plane, or a hotel room, or a pot of gold or, frankly, anything. I decided to be bold and secured accommodation for the night at the Schiphol Sheraton (no point being inconvenienced for a night and uncomfortable). Eventually, a clearly already-weary BA employee rebooked us onto a new flight departing the next day, and that was all we could do about it. No other options, not even the train.

It was at this point that I begun to wonder where we actually were. This was Amsterdam, a city founded by intrepid international traders and now inhabited by one of the most vibrant, affluent, technology-savvy urban populations on Earth. And yet it was starting to feel like we were struck in the back of beyond in the midst of a crippling natural disaster. Little did we realise just what a crippling natural ”“disaster” we were stuck in for real.

That morning’s photogenic frosting had reduced the seven-runway Schiphol to just one and, worse, London City (where we were supposed to fly back to), Heathrow and other airports in the UK had been closed. Europe - or at least those parts of Europe unable to cope with snow - was grinding to a complete halt. Flights into and out of Schiphol, and again to and from the UK, were being progressively cancelled, leaving planes, crews and passengers in the wrong places at the wrong times. BA alone was said to have 50,000 passengers stranded around the world, which meant more than 300 aircraft were not moving.

The following morning we stoically camped in the Sheraton’s executive lounge, with the Schiphol and BA websites continuing to say our flight was on time, even when most others were being cancelled for a second day running. Ominously, it started snowing again, whiting out the planes we’d been reassuringly watching taxiing for most of the morning. But, thinking we still had a flight to catch we boldly left the comfort of free refreshment and went off to drop our bags at the terminal.

It was almost inevitable that our hubris would be shattered. In the 15-minute walk from bag drop, through an empty security inspection, to the lounge, our rebooked flight had been cancelled. And this time, no 24-hour delay. It would be a full two more days before BA would be able to get us out of Amsterdam. This was no longer a mere inconvenience: our two nights in Amsterdam had extended to five. Yes, there’d be compensation, hotel costs covered and a somewhat miserly £25 a day to keep us fed and watered. But we would now be delayed 72 hours to get home from a city only 230 miles away as the crow flies (were it able to get clearance to take off...).

Now, I know what you’re thinking: why, at this point, didn’t we drive or take the train? Well the first option was nixed by an absence of driving licences (plus the conditions would have been treacherous) and the second by train seats costing hundreds of Euros each disappearing before our very eyes.
By this stage we'd been reduced to the ‘you couldn’t make it up’ state of mental paralysis. We weren’t yet ready to cry and, oddly, not yet ready to lose it, either. Northern Europe had been caught by the weather, and Sunday afternoon’s chaos had snowballed - if I can use that word - with knock-on effects. BA's rebooking algorithms had made a huge assumption that it would be OK for us to turn a basic weekend into a five-day holiday, and that our employers and (in my girlfriend’s case) children wouldn’t have a problem with us being away for three nights longer than planned. But, of course, throughout there was no one to actually speak to, even if we wanted to complain as - guess what? - you couldn’t get through to anyone if you tried.

Luckily, got yet another hotel booked - our third of the trip (and, as it turned out, a rather nice one) - and headed off to the lengthy taxi queue where, as if trying to make a point, the weather conditions seemed to worsen further as we snaked slowly towards a ride back into Amsterdam.

So how does this story end? It is now Wednesday and we’re in the British Airways business lounge at Schiphol, checked in for a flight back to London this afternoon. The snow is clearing and it is drizzling, but the temperature has gone up and Schiphol has declared itself fully operational again. Life returns to normal.

Frankly, I’m amazed that both of us have remained sane throughout this experience. We've repeatedly reminded each other - and our Facebook friends - that there really is not a lot we can do other than sit it out. Our respective employers have also said the same, which has been wonderful of them (lucky that we have jobs with such flexibility). But, really.

Travel, as I'm prone to observe, seems to bring out the worst in people. But sometimes it brings out the worst in travel. Situations like ours are where people go mad and start lashing out. Twitter provides a somewhat healthy outlet for venting, as a search of the word “Schiphol” revealed. Inevitably, though, the poor employees staffing airport desks have taken the brunt of frustrations. To be honest, you can’t blame some complainants, as missed business meetings, college lectures, family gatherings and everyday normality is turned upside down by a transport infrastructure, that we normally use without blinking an eye, comes to a halt.

Those of us of a more rational composure will accept that snow is simply Mother Nature at work, even if mankind has done much to make severe weather “events” more severe. And we will accept that for all those hundreds of days in the year when planes take off and land like clockwork, once in a while it will all go Pete Tong, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do.

If there is one observation to offer, however, it is to British Airways: the blame for Sunday’s 'Snowmageddon' could hardly be placed at the airline’s feet (no - that must surely be shared between whoever didn’t order enough snowploughs and the weather forecasters who didn’t see such a huge dumping coming...), but there’s plenty BA must improve upon when these situations occur. It was only a few months before that an IT outtage left 75,000 of its passengers stranded throughout the world, and the once proud British flag-carrier’s reputation has taken a pounding ever since, by everything from shrinking seats and charging for food on short-haul flights, to its ageing aircraft fleet and making passengers with the cheapest tickets board those planes last.

BA’s low-cost rivals have their faults (Ryanair’s pilot shortage catastrophe might even make this week’s difficulties pale), but the absence of true customer service since Sunday seems to point to a threadbare organisation more concerned with short-term profit margins rather than long-term sustainability built on a quality product and the customer loyalty that deserves. And while BA’s chief executive Alex Cruz has promised a multi-billion pound investment in much needed new aircraft, as well as facilities like an improved business class and in-flight WiFi to help it catch up with its biggest competitors, this will do very little to repair the company’s reputation today. Because issues like paying for a sandwich are trivial when you can’t even get through to a helpline to get on a plane to begin with.

I’ve worked in corporate PR for many years and know that the first rule of crisis communication is to engage your stakeholders properly. If that means calling in every single employee on a Sunday to man the phones or hand out coffee and snacks at the airport, that’s what you’ve got to do. You can’t rely on automated text messages and bots rebooking people onto flights three days after they were due to depart as customer engagement if that customer isn’t being informed of the whys, hows, and whens. In a crisis you communicate and communicate often. Because if you don’t, an information vacuum  develops leading to frustration and, in the case of travel - rarely the most placid of human conditions - palpable anger.

Lessons should have been learned from the May IT meltdown, when passengers complained about the lack of information as to what was going on, either collectively or in individual situations. A cursory text message may be a modern way of saying getting out information quickly, but if the follow-up process falls down, the engagement is pointless. Just as airports should have been better prepared for the snow, airlines should have been better prepared by putting staff on standby. Just two people on BA’s information desk at Schiphol on Sunday wasn’t enough (a problem replicated throughout the airport with other airlines), and although Schiphol employees were handing out bottled water and bars of chocolate on Monday, there was no such comfort on the day it all went wrong. 

Perhaps, though, the worst lapse was in something that shouldn’t have cost a penny: an airline acknowledging that lives had been disrupted, that people wouldn’t be returning home to families or that business appointments would be ruined, that what should have been the simplest of excursions had been turned on its head.

The tea really does taste better, and other observations

© Simon Poulter 2016

So, I’ve been back in London just over a month, after 17 and a half years living abroad, which is a statement that, I know, carries a whiff of the exotic. However, I'm not suggesting for one minute that I've been off-grid, khaki-clad with a pith helmet, observing still-primitive Amazonian tribes, or carrying out a long-term study of penguins in their natural habitat, or in my wilder moments of Walter Mittydom, living the rock star lifestyle in a Malibu hacienda, occasionally doing something with gated reverb.

No, for most of those years away I've been sat in an office. Furthermore, I've hardly been cut off from my homeland. Frequent commando raids to visit family, friends, Stamford Bridge and carry out sundry business commitments, more or less in that order, have kept me in regular contact. That said, there is a substantial difference between weekend trips to the home island and living somewhere day-to-day (or, simply, "living", as I had been doing exclusively in Britain before being coaxed elsewhere).

Of course, moving to the Netherlands - and subsequently California, back to the Netherlands again and then France - as I did, wasn't exactly volunteering for the first manned Mars mission. These countries do, I established quite quickly, have flushing toilets, and if you know where to look, shops selling Marmite. But coming back has thrown a spotlight on things I had missed, or more importantly, didn't know I'd missed.

With worldly-wiseness comes additional awareness of your home country and recognition of things you'd never have been conscious of before moving abroad, or that you suddenly become aware has become a thing while you've been away. Here, I offer my first observation: cars pushing into traffic from side roads. I honestly don't recall this ever being a custom (interestingly enough, in Holland cars coming out of a side road have right-of-way, which I didn't know until it was almost too late…the first time). During my driving lessons I was taught to wait until there was a break in the traffic and then pull out. Now the norm seems to be to simply stick the nose of your car out, forcing others to stop. And often the driver in question is actually trying to blag his or her way onto the other side of the road, forcing traffic on both sides to stop. I don't know when or where this came from, or why. It's possible that it is simply a consequence of Britain's roads becoming ever more congested, as property, demographics and population increases - including net immigration - have put more cars on the streets. Another good reason for me to eschew car ownership and make use of public transport, a trait I warmly embraced in Paris, and am happy to continue as I base myself in south-east London.

This brings me to my second observation: the sense of entitlement. I blame Simon Cowell. For many things, actually. At risk of committing the most middle-aged thing I've ever written, Britain has, in the years I've been at large, developed an assumption of on-demand, instantaneous everything, from Cowell's drive-through fame culture to 18-year-old footballers skipping the traditional cleaning-the-stadium-toilets-with-a-toothbrush apprenticeship and going straight to Range Rover ownership. And don't get me going on compensation.

With this entitlement comes an erosion of civility, something the Brexit referendum seems to have accelerated, with social media becoming the prime medium to tell complete strangers exactly what is thought of them. There is some credence to the argument that if Gary Lineker or Lily Allen tweet about refugees they are putting themselves out there, and that their freedom to express themselves is rightfully matched by those who dare to troll them. But, as I’ve blogged before, spend any time on Twitter and, much like the bubbling stream of bile that is the Daily Mail and its unhinged, tin-foil hat-wearing, demonstrably illiterate readership, you will succumb to both madness and despair at how people, shielded by their keyboard and the semi-anonymity of their handle, feel entitled to say whatever the want without consequence, and without any basis of a relationship to so.

This manifests itself, post-Brexit, with Polish community centres being vandalised, hijab-wearing Muslim women being verbally abused in town centres, and knuckle-dragging thugs staging protests about claiming their country back, not that I ever noticed that it had been taken away from them. And, guess what? After Tuesday's presidential earthquake, it's happening in America, too. Let right-wing populism win, and all of a sudden there are those acting like it's 1933 Germany, when brown was the in-vogue shirt colour.

When I left Britain in 1999 there was no such thing as social media. If you wanted to complain you either wrote to Jimmy Young, Points Of View or The Times. If you wanted to rant at complete strangers there was always Speaker’s Corner. Now, you can meltdown, Basil Fawlty-style, on Twitter. Which I did, without remorse, recently when trying to get broadband installed. Broadband providers go to great lengths to draw you in with slick marketing: TV ads with Hollywood celebrities and websites that connect you to directly via chat to experts helping you pick the right package. And then the horror begins: after handing over a large sum of money, you then wait for the service to begin. Except it doesn’t, so you connect by online chat again…where it takes half an hour for someone to take up your case, only to inform you that another department handles your type of package and you should call their helpdesk. Which you do, and you then spend an hour on hold due to “a high volume of calls”. In my case, I clocked up a full three hours on hold trying to find out why BT had arbitrarily cancelled the visiting installation engineer, and then cancelled my order altogether. Here Twitter comes into its own. It’s amazing how responsive companies become when their reputation is challenged publicly. It shouldn’t be like this, of course. You should just be able to call a number and someone answers, more or less straight away. Britain’s population may have grown in recent years, but not so much that some of a telecommunications provider’s substantial profits can’t be invested in extra customer support personnel.

There are many more line items I could complain about the Britain I’ve returned to, from London’s choked, gridlocked traffic, to those Estuary accents where each sentence ends with a rising pitch like a question?, to jogging bottoms as workwear, young women wearing make-up applied by an industrial sandblaster (and eyebrows which may have been drawn with an extra thick Sharpie), to Nando's. But that could sound ungallant about my return, which would be wrong.

Throughout my time abroad I’ve eulogised about my adopted surroundings. Amsterdam remains an adorable village masquerading as a national capital. California will always be where I go for sunny people and sunny weather in a geography that offers cities as majestic as San Francisco and as relaxed as San Diego, and the eye candy of its beaches, mountains and deserts, of Lake Tahoe and Yosemite. And Paris. What can I say that I haven’t already? An architectural history museum that you can actually live in, with subsidised public transport and the amusement of people watching without being judged for it.

But it's not for nothing that for some time I’ve wanted to come back to London. For a vibrancy matched only by New York; for its culture, its art, music, exhibitions and theatre; for its diversity; for its ability to blend modernity with traditionalism; for the sense of newness I keep finding around every corner, nestled amongst the old; for the joy of taking a Thames Clipper to the football; for tea that really does taste better; for breaking my umbilical cord with the south-western suburbs I grew up in and welcoming me to the south-east of the capital.

As much as there is a degree of architectural vandalism going in London, with the rapid forestation of huge, new towers of glass and steel dominating the skyline, there is also an unshakeable excitement about the place that I notice and experience every day I step outside. Even post-Brexit, with the banks and other corporate institutions supposedly buggering off to Frankfurt and Amsterdam, London feels as resilient today as ever before. It’s new mayor, Sadiq Khan, is a force for good, putting himself about on the world stage in an enthusiastically statesmanlike manner, declaring the British capital open. If he could do something about the traffic, Heathrow and the epidemic of knife crime, he would be somewhere close to the country’s best politician (and certainly more effective than either the leadership of the party he represents or the self-serving scoundrels they are supposed to be in opposition to).

All this aside, I'm not going to make melodrama out of my repatriation. Really, there hasn’t been a lot to it. Essentially, I arrived, and then went straight down the pub. It has all been relatively easy - as really I should have expected, though that’s not to say there have been things to get used to again, not to mention things to do for the very first time. But I’ll be honest, the star of all this has been London.

I'm writing this in New York, the self-styled ‘greatest city in the world’, a description much like The Rolling Stones being the world’s greatest rock and band. If so, then London runs it close on many points, and even beats it on others. Kind of like The Who, The Kinks and Led Zeppelin. It really is good to be back.

Frexit, stage left

© Simon Poulter 2016

So that's it. Seventeen-and-a-half years after I moved to Amsterdam, and embarked on a journey that took me to California, back to the Netherlands and then, since New Year's Day 2011, Paris, I'm back "home". Yeah, London, baby!

Well, I say home, but it really is where the heart is. And mine has been enchanted by Amsterdam's canal-lined streets, the perma-sunshine of the Golden State, the quaint, rural Dutch village where I 'settled' for six years, and then on to Paris. Of course, I've never been that far from the old country: Amsterdam and Paris are barely an hour by plane, five hours by road, and with family and a Chelsea season ticket to return to, not to mention business commitments, it does sometimes feel like I've never been away. But in reality, there’s a big difference to actually living back here again and the frequent commando raids I’ve made over the last 17 years to stock up on Shreddies and deodorant, or to buy suits from Marks & Spencer that properly fit (France doesn’t do suits for someone of my…er…shape - more so short-arsed men who stay stick thin through chain-smoking and thimbles of weapons-grade coffee that renders them nervous energy-burning furnaces).

Returning to Britain after the better part of two decades as an ex-pat brings many new things to get one's head around. When I left in 1999 there was no broadband, no WiFi, and the Internet - which I accessed on a company-provided laptop - was connected to via a tectonically-slow dial-up connection. On top of that, everyone was running around like Chicken Licken predicting that the sky would fall in because of the Millennium Bug. This also reminds me that I left the UK in the 20th century and have now 'returned’ in the 21st. Of itself, this is not a particularly breathtaking fact - as it's been the 21st century everywhere else I've been - but it does shed daylight in on how Britain has changed.

Immigration may have been the extreme sunburn-sensitive topic that dominated the Brexit debate, but it has made for an enriching character shift to many British communities. There's not a café or coffee outlet in London now not exclusively staffed by eastern Europeans (and more power to them - at least they are happy to serve your cappuccino without giving off the sense of the job being beneath them...). A few Christmases ago I took a bus into Kingston-upon-Thames and was struck by the variety of accents and languages being spoken on the top deck. Here, in the area in which I was born and grew up in, were now conversations in Polish or Czech (working in an international community tunes the ears to foreign tongues), as well as Korean, the result of New Malden (my hometown) hosting Europe's largest Korean community, a legacy of Samsung basing its European HQ there a few years ago. And you know what? The Korean supermarkets and street signs, Polish delis, and Lithuanian-run tea shops have brought a new vibrancy to the area.

The other thing I've noticed is how risk-averse Britain has become and how bossy it is as a result. Such is the health and safety culture here that there is barely a trade not required to wear high-visibility attire (including, even, police horses). Viewed from space, I'm fairly sure that the United Kingdom shows up as a fluorescent yellow triangle in the North Sea. In France there is no such paranoia. In fact, health and safety just doesn’t exist. You can walk under construction cranes shifting heavy loads without so much as a “look up” sign to warn you, let alone a 100-metre safety perimeter and mandatory hard hat wearing. As with many things in France, workers are merely an inconvenience to be shrugged at in that inherently insouciant French manner.

Travelling by public transport in Britain is to be subjected to a never-ending babble of reminders and instructions. Actually, orders. Recently I was in a rush to catch the Heathrow Express into London, and I got barked at over the tannoy by the platform guard: “No need to run! Plenty of time!", in a voice not dissimilar to the schoolteacher on Pink Floyd's The Wall ("YOU! Yes, you laddie! Stand STILL!"). This was the same guard who’d shouted at everyone not to board the train until vital security checks were carried out, and then barked at everyone to board quickly. You can’t win.

Once on board a moving train, Bossy Britain subjects you to a running commentary, telling you which station you’ve just left, what station comes up next, what line you’re on, who runs that line, what terminus you’ll end up in. On the London Underground it’s even worse: “The next station is Bank.” “We are now at Bank.” “Mind the gap as you get off.” “Please allow people to get off before you get on.” “Move down inside the carriage please.” “Move RIGHT down inside the carriage please.” “Stand clear of the doors.” “The doors are closing - stand clear of the doors.” “The doors have now closed”. “The next station is Holborn”. I’m sure some public transport workers in Britain are failed wedding DJs - the type who just won’t shut up.

When I left the UK in 1999 I had a mobile phone that made calls and sent text messages. And that was it. Apple was regarded somewhat dismissively as a niche company with overpriced products designed for creative professionals and no one else. I used to drool over Apple Powerbooks in shop windows like Mike Myers drooling over that white Stratocaster in Wayne’s World. And then the original iMac came out, and all of a sudden the idea of an affordable and cool-looking computer at home seemed viable and attractive. I bought one in Amsterdam in 1999, commencing an addiction to the Apple brand as powerful and as financially destructive as an acute crystal-meth habit. Apple cleverly marketed the digital lifestyle, and I have enthusiastically bought into it.

While I'm trawling through the annals of an already-distancing past, let me also mention my football club. In 1999 Chelsea were still flirting with financial near-death, but since Glenn Hoddle had become manager in 1994, and players like Ruud Gullit, Gianfranco Zola, Gianluca Vialli and Frank Leboeuf had been added, the club’s stock had steadily risen.

© Simon Poulter 2016

By the time I set off for Holland, Vialli had replaced Gullit as player-manager, but they were still perennial sixth place contenders. Their 1995 run in the old Cup Winners’ Cup was their only foray into Europe since 1971. I made the decision to keep my season ticket when I moved abroad. Such was the growing popularity of the club, fuelled by the stars now playing in blue, seats for home games at Stamford Bridge were already becoming scarce. Even when I moved to California I decided not to give up the ticket, knowing that a three-year waiting list would be too painful to endure if I had to start all over again. In 2004 the Abramovich era began, bringing with it José Mourinho, and trophies and titles like I’d never seen in my lifetime. It’s going to be nice going to Stamford Bridge more often again, especially midweek games (I’ve only been able to attend one in 17 years), where the jeans-and-sweatshirt uniform of a Saturday afternoon matches is replaced by those who’ve just rushed from the office, wearing a suit and an overcoat, the Evening Standard stuffed in a pocket.

So what have I gained from these years abroad? It’s a chronic cliché to say that travel broadens the mind, but living abroad - especially on "the continent” - has highlighted just how much of an island nation Britain can be. Europeans are different, but not in a physical way. When I first moved to Amsterdam I seemed to be under the impression I was relocating to a developing country lacking supermarkets, flushing toilets or breakfast cereal. I was instantly wrong. The Netherlands is one of the smartest, modern countries in the world, full of people who learn languages in seconds and enjoy a sense of contentment known locally as “gezelligheid”. It’s an almost-impossible word to define, but imagine very tall, healthy-looking people, sitting outside a café with a glass of rosé on a warm summer’s evening, looking smug, and you’ve come close to understanding what gezelligheid means.

© Simon Poulter 2016

And, then, France (I'll skip my two years in the US - a nation you probably know of too well). The opportunity to live and work in Paris was the fulfilment of a romantic ideal I’d coveted over many years, the result of watching too many Alain Delon films and The Day Of The Jackal, and seeing Paris as somewhere stuck resolutely, defiantly, nobly in the 1960s. I dreamed of living in a traditional Paris apartment, like Inspector Clouseau, with a view of the Eiffel Tower from my window. I achieved that, and then some. And the fact is, Paris is still stuck in the 1960s: I recently watched The Day Of The Jackal again and, now familiar with many of the locations (the hotel at the film’s denouement is right opposite a regular meeting point for a friend of mine and I), I saw how the city really doesn’t look any different 45 years on. And I love it for it. When I moved there I wrote a love letter to it (A Paris Love Affair) on my old blog. That love hasn’t dimmed. Yesterday - my last morning as a Parisian - I went out for breakfast and walked part of the way back in brilliant blue-sky sunshine, soaking up the Haussmann architecture near the Sorbonne. A modern, progressive city but one which hasn’t lost touch with its aesthetic charm. Or its passion.

On this I’m conflicted about London. Yes, there’s plenty of ‘the old’ in London to remind you of its history, even its pre-Roman history, but there’s almost too much of the new. 17 years ago I would take the bus to work across Waterloo Bridge and look east to a skyline dominated by St. Paul’s Cathedral. Now, the skyline is dominated by vast monuments to glass and steel, an architect’s wet dream, in which they compete to out-design each other. Over the next few years, it is reported, there will be as many as 250 new skyscrapers going up in central London. On the one hand, it’s a sign of the city’s vibrancy as a place to do business, and even post-Brexit, an indication that things will be fine, after all. But on the other hand, it reminds me of just how architectural conservatism in Paris has ensured the city remains both liveable and effective, but also eye-wateringly attractive every time you step outside the front door.

When I moved to Paris I was warned by lazy British tabloid tropes that my life was going to be blighted by stereotypes. My day would be brought to a crawling pace by slow and indifferent waiters; strikes would impede any form of travel; and I would drown under an ocean of bureaucracy. Well, the last one proved to be fact. France appears to exist purely to provide employment for office workers processing pieces of paper. But the rest? Not really.

© Simon Poulter 2016

There hasn't, even, been much of the legendary French militancy, the spirit of the Bastille and rioting students at the Sorbonne in '68. Apart from aggressive taxi drivers (and outbreaks of riots this summer), I've seen little of this aspect of French expression. With one exception: being a part of the "unity" march on January 11 last year, in the wake of the Charlie Hebdo shootings, was one of the most profound experiences of my life, a tidal wave of more than a million and half people setting off from Place de la Republique. If only it had had the desired effect in warning off those who believe in the Kalashnikov and the suicide vest as the only means of making a statement. Ten months later, I was dealing with the news that two wonderful friends had been caught up in the attack on Le Bataclan. Thankfully, they got out safely. But this was an attack on the freedom you enjoy in Paris. Ultimately, it was an attack on a lifestyle I enjoyed more than anything else in Paris - the cafés and music venues. I won't dwell further on it - there'll be plenty of that from the media next month when the anniversary comes up - but the era of terrorism (including 9/11 - when I was living in California - and indeed July 7, 2005 in London), has become one of the darker undercurrents of the years I've been abroad.

Paris and London are comparable in size and, to some extent, economic influence over the rest of the nation. But while I am overwhelmingly excited to be back in London, there are many things I’ll miss from the last few years in the French capital. Firstly, the people. I’ve made lifelong friends there, but the fact that the city is only two hours away by Eurostar (well, 13 hours, given the number of breakdowns it experiences…) means they will never be far at all. But secondly, the way of living. Small things that make a big difference, like getting to see gigs by Robert Plant, the Stone Roses, Richard Hawley, Johnny Marr, Paul Weller and many others in small, intimate theatres where you’re only a few feet from the stage, as opposed to the cavernous venues these same acts would play on British tours (tip to self: stay tuned to the Paris gig listings, especially given how easy it is to get from London to Paris).

Then there’s the relative ease of getting about. Yes, Paris is still a choked madhouse of drivers riding their car horns, but that’s for those who still insist on driving. Two years ago I sold my car (which had been stuck in a garage, unused, for the previous two years). Owning a car in Paris is an utter waste of time and money. When public transport is subsidised, and your employer pays for your €70, five-zone monthly Navigo card (compare this to the £212 it costs you to travel the same distance each week in London), and there’s a Métro train every two minutes, there’s every incentive to get rid of the wheels. Getting used to this - and things like shopping every couple of days at the local supermarket rather loading up a car once a week at some giant out-of-town aircraft hangar - has brought an enjoyable simplicity to city living, one which I will replicate readily in London by living close to the centre and not going back to car ownership. That sense of simplicity is one of the many things I’ve acquired living abroad. I grew up in London’s suburbs, where car ownership is a near-necessity, but also a status symbol. In the days when a new number plate letter appeared on August 1, net curtains really would rustle avariciously when a shiny new motor appeared on the driveway across the road. I can do without that. Plus, thanks to being a frequent car hire patron over my years abroad, it’s nice to get an upgrade to something fancy on the few occasions I need to rent one.

17 years, out of almost 49, is a large chunk of my life. For example, I’ve spent more time, since passing my driving test, living in countries where you drive on the right as opposed to driving on the left. For 13 years my salary has been paid in Euros, and I’ve loved being able to visit friends in Germany or go on holiday to Italy without having to go near a bureau de change. These are, though, merely material differences.

Over 17 years I’ve seen two nephews grow from children into successful adults, one with a wife and daughter, the other with a self-made career as a personal trainer. A third came along in 2002 and is now a teenager. I’ve seen my brother and sister-in-law become grandparents, and witnessed, periodically, my own parents go from retirees in their late sixties to proud, but increasingly frail pensioners in their mid-eighties, my dad gradually (though slowly) succumbing to that cruellest thief of dignity, Alzheimer’s.

I’ve never been all that far away from my family over the last 17 years, but now I’m going to be even closer. My visits will not be dictated to by the need to get to an airport, phone calls won’t be scheduled around time zones, spare rooms won’t need to be reserved, and Hertz at Heathrow won’t be seeing so much of me. Everything I love about London will be a Tube ride’s away - the museums, the culture, Covent Garden, gigs, HMV in Oxford Street, the theatre, the diversity, an energy matched (or even eclipsed) only by New York. Over the last three years I’ve spent more time for business reasons in London, during which time I came to feel that there was something I was missing out on. Couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it was there. One way or another I knew I’d be back, and through the good fortune of a job move, I am. I’m back. London, baby! Yeah.